


The Curtains at Dawn

by Celebratory Penguin (cpenguing)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Arguing, Gen, McLennon if you squint really hard because Paul is only 15 here, Minor Character Death, Mourning, offscreen death, salty language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-17 03:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13650558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cpenguing/pseuds/Celebratory%20Penguin
Summary: July, 1958: In the wake of an argument and Julia's death, Paul and John have to find their way back to one another.The title comes from this quote from John Steinbeck's "Sweet Thursday"--"Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass."





	1. Chapter One

"Men do change, and change comes like a little wind that ruffles the curtains at dawn, and it comes like the stealthy perfume of wildflowers hidden in the grass."

\--John Steinbeck, Sweet Thursday

 

* * *

 

 

Saturday, July 19, 1958

 

The comb runs smoothly through Paul's dark hair now that it is washed clean of sugar-water and grease. The sleek side-part makes him look young and gormless, and he huffs in irritation at the unfamiliar reflection in the mirror. Suddenly he has become his father's image of the perfect son: a sweet-faced lad who'd never sag off school, wouldn't touch a ciggie, and certainly wouldn't play in a rock-and-roll band with the likes of that Lennon boy. 

The change from Teddy Paul to Respectable Young Lad had not been Paul's idea. "It simply won't do to be seen in that ridiculous duck's-arse today," his father had declared as he marched Paul toward the bathroom, "Not when you're visiting the bereaved, son, don't you realize that?" 

What could Paul possibly know about visiting the bereaved, when he and Mike had been shuffled away to Uncle Joe and Aunt Joan while their own mother was dying? When they'd been denied the comfort of her requiem mass, when she was buried near her parents and baby sister with no stone to mark where she lay? 

He takes a deep breath. He can't think about that right now. He needs to concentrate on a new bereavement. 

_George, breathless and red-faced from the long bike ride from his house to Paul's, leaned over with his hands on his knees as he tried to transform his gasps into speech. "John's mum was hit by a car. She's dead. Julia's dead." Paul felt the blood rushing from his face, leaving him shivering in the chill of shock. George's expression was contrite as he reached out to grasp Paul's forearm, steadying him. "Oh, God. Sorry. Should've broken it to you differently. I mean...with your mum and all..."  
_

His mum and all. He and Mike had never even had the chance to say goodbye to her. And now, Paul and John have that in common. 

Even if he and John aren't exactly on speaking terms at the moment. 

Paul stalks quickly back to his bedroom, ignoring Mike's catcalls at his newly-conservative hairdo. His father has laid out clothes for him, Jim's own second-best rig: a dark blue jacket, white shirt, black tie, and black trousers that are so full in the leg that Paul wonders how he'll be able to walk in them without tripping over his own ankles and falling over. Such old-man clothes for such a young man. 

"I wouldn't be caught dead in these," Paul mutters as he shoves the garments around on the bed. A sudden spasm of realization freezes him with the tie running like ink through his fingers. 

Caught dead. 

John's mum is laid out, dead, somewhere. Maybe still at Sefton, maybe at a funeral parlor, but dead. Julia, of the sunset hair and gardenia perfume and bell-like, girlish laugh. Gone. 

_"I heard squealing tyres and then a thump, and when I turned around I saw her fly through the air," Nigel said later that awful day, pressing his fingers over his closed eyelids if that would drive the image from his mind. "Then she was on the pavement and her hair was all spread out around her, and I knew she was gone."_

Gone. A temporary word for a permanent agony. 

_"I'm so sorry, boys. Your mum's gone," Dad said, one hand on Paul's shoulder and the other on Mike's head. Mike's tears were bad enough but Dad's, pooling in his eyes, were unbearable. Paul couldn't let himself join them._

_Paul's mouth outpaced his brain, the way it always did when tragedy sent his world tilting, and the words spilled out before he could stop them: "What will we do without her money?"  
_

Just over a year later, the rush of shame still sends blood to his cheeks, hot and uncomfortable. What kind of bastard says such a thing? _  
_

Paul turns to the window, hoping for a breeze. His gaze falls on one of the netted-lace curtains hanging with a jagged shred down the middle, an open wound over the heart. It had happened only last week, when Julia was still a lively presence, not a ghost to be mourned. _  
_

_John, swiveling his hips and "doing Elvis," flailed his arms and flung both body and guitar with equal abandon. Paul laughed until John got too close to the window. "Be careful, you're gonna get it caught..."  
_

_The sound of tearing fabric interrupted Paul's warning. The headstock of John's guitar was shrouded in the sheer curtain, a couple of tuning pegs poking through the fabric like a compound fracture.  
_

_"Jesus, John, you've gone and torn it!"  
_

_"It's a curtain," John countered. "Not like it's a fucking family heirloom."  
_

_"Yeah, but my Mum made 'em!" Paul's fingers flew to disentangle the metal from the fabric, his attention divided between the task at hand and his desperate need to blink back the hot tears that would surely damn him in his older, cooler friend's eyes.  
_

_"C'mon, Paul, it was an accident." John reached out to help but Paul batted his hand away. "Calm down, wouldya, you're acting like a bloody toddler!"  
_

_Not listening to anything but the blood pounding in his ears, Paul freed the guitar from the lace and thrust it at John without looking at him. He wasn't so much angry as embarrassed, so much so that he couldn't look at John, didn't see the pain his next words caused. "Just go home, John. You've done enough damage for one day."  
_

_He didn't see the dejected slump of John's shoulders as he crept away, closing the door with uncharacteristic softness as he left the house.  
_

Paul hasn't talked to John since. It's stupid, really, but Paul has no idea how to make it right, any more than he knows how to repair the rend in the curtain his mum sewed with such pride. But she's dead, and now Julia's dead as well. Paul knows there's a connection to be made, but he's far too confused to think about it now. 

Jim roars up the stairs. "Mick! Paulie! It's time to go!" 

It's time to go, time for the McCartneys to pay a condolence call, food in hand. Paul's throat is dry and aching. Dressed in his father's image, he squares his shoulders and tries to conjure up some of his father's maturity. If he's going to face John, if he's going to try to mend their friendship, he's going to need all the help he can get.


	2. Chapter Two

Mike, who has been complaining about having to dress up and use actual manners on a Saturday morning, seems content enough to carry the large, covered platter to the bus stop. "Keep it level," Jim warns. Paul smirks a little at the way Mike's shoulders hitch up in annoyance at their father's admonition. 

A bus turns the corner and Jim hails it. Paul puts his hand on his father's arm to stop him. "That's the wrong bus for the Dykins'," he says. 

"They're not at his place. They're at Mendips," Jim replies evenly as he guides Mike up the stairs so that the plate won't turn sideways and spill its contents. 

"John's aunt Mimi won't let us in the front door," Paul groans. 

Jim motions him to sit next to Mike, then leans against the window for balance. "Nonsense." 

"No, literally, Dad. I have to come in the back. And take my shoes off. John says she calls me..." He trails off, uncomfortable at the mention of John's name, at the very thought of John. "Well. It doesn't matter."

Jim raises an eyebrow at him. "He hasn't been around much this week. You two have a barney?" 

"Something like that." Paul hears the bitterness in his own voice. 

"They're not speaking. Acting like a couple of girrrrrrls," puts in Mike in his most annoying sing-song. Paul punches him lightly in the upper arm, just enough to let him know that's no way to speak to his elders. 

"So Lennon's got a dragon for an auntie, then?" Jim asks. Paul nods his response, suddenly darting glances at the drab scenery, at his own shoes, anywhere but his father's intelligent eyes. "And what's she calling you?" 

Paul bites his lip and shakes his head, but Mike is all too happy to answer. "She calls him 'that doe-eyed common boy.'" 

Jim stiffens a bit but doesn't say anything. He starts to ruffle Paul's hair, then pulls his hand back and shakes his head instead. Paul remembers how much his mother tried and tried to bring them out of working-class ways, knows how disappointed his father is in Paul's tumbling academic record. 

"We'll not hold that against her. For today." Jim's eyes twinkle and he winks at his sons. "Best behaviour, then, lads." 

They're at the stop for Mendips. Once again Mike is reminded to keep the platter steady as they step down into the street. 

Julia died here. Just there, down the road a bit. Paul doesn't want to look. It's daft; it's not as if there's blood or bone left behind. He simply doesn't want to look, just as he avoided his parents' bedroom for months after his mother's death. 

Mimi is standing in front of the house, saying goodbye to a visitor, when she spots the McCartneys. Paul half expects her to shoo them to the back door, but instead she holds out a hand to Jim, who shakes it gently. "You must be Paul's father," she says. Her voice is milder than Paul has ever heard it, and sadder. 

"We're so sorry for your loss," Jim says. He gives Mike a gentle nudge forward. "We brought a little something." 

Mimi takes the platter with a tight smile at Mike. "That's very kind. Won't you come in?" 

Paul's heart hammers wildly. They don't have to go in, really, do they? Perhaps they can just get back on the bus now and go home... 

"Just for a moment, to pay our respects to the rest of the family." Jim removes his hat as he enters the forbidden front door, the boys in tow behind him. Paul peers around and sees Bobby Dykins - Julia's husband, the man John always calls "Twitchy" - sitting alone in an armchair. The other aunts are huddled together on the sofa as far away from him as they can get while still being in the same room. Jim introduces himself and his sons, then the three of them take seats on the folding chairs that always appear like magic when company is expected. 

Silence falls on the group. Mimi and her sisters are elegantly attired in sober black, and Bobby has on a newish suit. The sitting room is spotless. Paul is suddenly acutely aware of the little hole in his father's sole, of the way Mike's skinny wrists stick out of the sleeves of last winter's jacket, of the chip in their mother's beloved willow platter. They're out of place here. Paul's out of place here. 

"Are the girls here?" Paul asks, desperate to break the unpleasant stillness. He's always been fond of John's little half-sisters. He loves children, generally - even his own brother, if he has to put hand to heart - and these little girls adore him back. 

Bobby shakes his head. "They're up at Mater's place. They don't...they don't know, yet." 

"We were sent away, too," pipes up Mike. Paul silences him with a withering glare. 

Clearing his throat, Jim clarifies Mike's comment. "My Mary passed just over a year ago. She didn't want a fuss, at the end, so my brother and sister-in-law kept the boys until it was all over. It's best that way, I think - spared them the worst of it." 

Mike shudders slightly. Paul puts one hand at the small of his brother's back and gets a smile in return. Blood's thicker than water. That's what their mother always said to them when they were squabbling. 

For the first time since they met, Mimi looks at Paul as if he's human, worthy of her notice. He's amazed to see compassion in eyes that are usually so sharp and keen to find fault. "John's here, but he's not come down all day. Perhaps you'd go up and talk to him, Paul?" 

Bearding the lion in his den holds no attraction to him. "I don't want to intrude," he says, weakly, but Mimi is already waving him toward the staircase. He stands up, feeling ridiculous in his father's borrowed clothing, and makes his way upstairs.

His feet feel like lead weights and his hand shakes when he knocks on John's bedroom door. 

"Leave off, Mimi." John's voice is raw. 

"It's not--it's Paul." Spoken like a fool, like a nervous little schoolboy sent to the headmaster for some infraction. 

Silence. 

"John? Can I come in? Mimi's worried about you. I'm--I'm worried." 

Silence.

Then, worse than silence: "Go away, Paul." 

Not "fuck off, Macca," or "not now, Paulie." 

Go away. 

A week ago, Paul would have thrown the door open anyway and pulled a face at John to make him smile. But not today. Maybe not ever again. The thought sticks in Paul's throat like bile. 

He nearly slips on the carpet as he goes back downstairs in his father's unfamiliar dress shoes. Jim's on his feet again, talking softly to Bobby while the Stanley sisters take the platter into the kitchen. "Oh, it's a lovely fresh loaf of bread and homemade jam," says one of the aunties approvingly. 

Paul's standing close enough to hear Jim clearly now. "My sister Gin made it, and the preserves as well. People always bring dinner things, but it's breakfast where you miss the wife most," Jim says, his voice gentle. 

Bobby just nods. He looks terrible. He's pale, with an unshaven patch that shows how carelessly he shaved that morning, and his eyes are unfocused. "Do you really think it's right, sending off the girls like that?" 

"Of course it is. We have to get hold of ourselves first. Can't let the kids see us breaking down, now can we, even if we miss 'em? So we get our grief out of the way and then we can be dads again."

Paul has never thought of it like that. He and Mike assumed they were in the way, unwanted, untrustworthy, underfoot. The sudden realization that they had been sorely missed as they were being protected from their father's sorrow, rushes over him like a tidal wave. He glances at Mike and sees the same dawn of understanding in his expression as well. 

Mimi crosses the room and stops in front of Paul. She's so neat and tidy, even now, not a hair out of place, but the rims of her eyes are red. Nigel said she'd ridden with her sister's body in the back of the ambulance. Paul tries to imagine what that was like but he can't. He shrugs at Mimi's inquisitively lifted eyebrow. "He won't see me," he says. 

"Evidently not, since he's shimmied out the window and run off." Mimi says wryly as she leads Paul to the window and shows him John's retreating figure pedaling furiously at his bicycle. "But I appreciate the attempt." She doesn't step aside, and Paul doesn't know what to do next. He looks down at Mimi again just as she puts one slim hand on his forearm. "John never told me about your mother. He should have done. I made assumptions about you, and I was wrong. I'm so sorry." 

Paul blinks rapidly. He knows his mouth is slightly agape so he shuts it, his teeth snapping together loudly. John would love this, he thinks, hearing Mimi actually apologize for something. Paul would love seeing John's reaction. But John's out on his bicycle, getting as far away from Paul as his legs will carry him.

"He'll be back," Mimi says quickly, as if reading Paul's mind. "It's just John being John, running away from his troubles." 

Paul remembers the hours and hours spent in the back garden every day, guitar in hand, singing softly to himself and the birds. He wonders what John will do. He wonders what John would be doing now, if it hadn't been for John tearing the curtain and Paul overreacting to it. He sets his mouth firmly to hide the tremor that threatens to betray him. 

Out of the corner of his eye Paul sees his father shake Bobby's hand and motion for Mike to get up and join him. Thank God, they're getting ready to go. Paul swallows hard. "Tell him...tell him how sorry I am, Mrs. Smith." 

Mimi and Jim exchange a few quiet pleasantries, then the McCartneys are on their way home. They don't speak during the bus trip. Mike stays close to Jim's side, his face half-hidden against his father's suit jacket. Paul knows the scent of it well, tobacco and coffee and things that smell like home, like caring. 

The instant the bus stops Paul jumps off and rushes toward his room, taking the stairs two at a time. He strips off Jim's clothes and puts on his own: a black t-shirt, drainies, and a pair of comfortable old loafers without socks. He doesn't bother with his hair - too much trouble to grease it up now. With barely a glance back at his father and brother he grabs his bicycle and heads off to wherever the day may take him. 

With any luck, it'll take him to John.


	3. Chapter Three

There's no destination in Paul's mind when he sets out on his ride, not really, even though he finds himself passing some of John's favourite haunts. There's no sign of John or his bike anywhere. Paul stands up on the pedals for more leverage and sucks in a lungful of the muggy, ashy air. It makes him cough until his eyes water, the same way the first ciggy of the day affects him. Thinking about smoking makes him think about John.

Fuck. That's not going to help at all. 

Paul slows his pace and sits back down on the uncomfortable bike seat, taking one hand off the handlebars so he can swipe at his sweaty face with the back of his arm. The flesh only smears the sweat around his face; he should've worn a jacket. Should've kept his temper when John tore the curtain. Should've said "I love you" to Mum.

Getting a second wind, Paul leans over and starts pedaling faster until he's at the docks and the air is marginally cleaner. Summer's overcast heat has turned the sky the same dingy grey as the harbor water. The earth-and-sea tang of saltwater calms him a little. Most Liverpudlians probably have it running through their veins mixed in with blood, booze, gallows humour, and the ability to Get On With It. 

 _Think of your blessings_ _instead of your worries_ , Mum had always suggested when Paul came to her with his schoolboy complaints. He'd quoted that to Julia once, early in their acquaintance, when she was carping tipsily about something stupid Bobby had done. She'd leaned toward him, a thick coat of scarlet lipstick gluing her cigarette to her lower lip, and asked if he planned to become a vicar when he grew up. Afterwards, when she'd found out about Mary, she became sweeter to him, even flirted with him a little now and again, much to John's continual aggravation. 

Paul had flirted back, God forgive him. Not the big-eyed, poor motherless boy act he plays sometimes to get sympathy from his mates' mothers but the kind of flirting that gets him kisses-and-a-bit-more from lasses his own age. The thought of it revolts him now. Not because Julia was older, or even that she was John's mother, but because she's dead and now, in Paul's twisted logic, that makes her sainted the way his own mother is. 

Now he's thinking about John, Julia, AND his mum, which makes the guilty blood sludge through his veins as he rides and rides and rides as if the devil were after him. 

He's not wearing a watch so he's surprised it's late enough for the afternoon to turn dusky. Panting a little from his exertion, he heads back from the docks into town. The streets start to look more familiar but he still isn't really thinking about where he's going, precisely, until he ends up on Menlove Avenue.

John, again. 

Maybe he's come home. Paul follows the bend in the street and stops in front of Mendips. He peers up into John's window but it's dark. The whole house is shadowy, as if it's hiding. Or in mourning. 

Stupid idea, anyway, coming here. 

Home holds no appeal for Paul even though he doesn't know where else to go. His feet grind against the pedals as he rides quickly to nowhere. He's trying to keep his thoughts at bay by exhausting himself, pedaling so fast that he doesn't hear his name being called by a couple of school chums over the squeak of the chain, the growl of the tyres against gravel and cement. 

Paul knows that he desperately needs to talk to someone. Not his aunties, his usual first call, because they have sided with Dad against John, and will just tell him that John's not worth all this bother. It's not true. John is worth so much. Why can't people see that? 

An idea finally forms in Paul's whirling mind, and he turns around to head for the Harrisons' house. The lights are bright in the kitchen when he knocks, and when George's mum opens the door Paul catches the welcoming scents of fresh bread and steak-and-kidney pie. 

Paul realizes that he must be a sight, sweating profusely, with his lank hair hanging in his eyes, but he forges ahead anyway. "Evening, Mrs. Harrison - is George about?" 

Louise's perceptive gaze takes Paul in from head to toe as she speaks. "He's out with his dad and Peter, working on a friend's car that's broken down," she says, quickly but kindly. "You don't half look knackered, love, come in and wash up a bit." She ushers him into the kitchen and turns on the faucet so he can splash his face and get the grime off his hands. She continues talking while he cleans himself. 

"Thank heavens you've turned up, because it's time for their tea but it'll be cold long before they get in. No track of time, those fellows. So you'll have it instead, teach them a lesson, right?" 

Laughing for the first time in days, Paul takes the offered seat as Louise starts setting out cups and plates for two. "You've just missed John," she says, peering above the teapot and watching Paul for his response. 

"John? He came to see George? He wouldn't talk to me when I was at Mendips this morning." Paul winces, knowing he sounds ridiculous and whiny. Jealous. 

Louise cocks her head and smiles, knowingly and sympathetically. "He wasn't looking for George. He wanted to know how to fix something - a netted-lace curtain. Said he'd torn one and wanted to make it right." If she sees the flush rising in Paul's cheeks, she doesn't let on. "I explained how to darn lace so it won't show, then I had him practice on a bit on an old tablecloth. He's good with a needle, that John, once he puts on his glasses to work." She cuts a slice of the pie and slides it onto Paul's plate, then sits back and sips her tea. "Pity that friendships aren't that simple to mend." 

Paul pauses with a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth, his hunger forgotten, a sudden clench of fear clawing at his chest. He shakes himself a bit and forces himself to put the food in his mouth and chew slowly, buying time until he has to reply. 

"It was an accident," he says. "My mum made them for my room, not long before..." He drops his gaze to the plate, not for effect but because his eyes are stinging. "I was stupid."

"That's almost exactly what John said: 'I was acting stupid.' Of course, he didn't tell me whose curtain he'd torn, but I guessed from how guilty he felt, and I told him so." Louise leans forward and puts her work-worn hand over Paul's, smooth except for the calluses on his fingertips. "He KNOWS, now. So, now you two have to be a little kinder to each other." 

Paul feels as if he's been slapped. He's always kind to John, even when John's at his most exasperating. Isn't he? He opens his mouth to retort, but the warm pressure of Louise's hand turns to a firm squeeze. How does she know what he's about to say? He doesn't speak the question aloud but his eyes go wide, and he sees her smile back at him. 

"I have a husband and three sons, Paul. I know how men are. And you're more of a man than a boy now, not just in age but in what you've gone through. Let those experiences be a guide to how you treat people. There's nothing so becoming to a man as a thread of gentleness running through him." 

She cuts a slice of bread and puts it on Paul's plate. He nods his thanks, then reaches for the teapot and refills Louise's cup. His hands are a little shaky. He tells himself it's because he's so tired. 

"Don't repeat this to George, but he's worried. Oh, not so much about you and John - although I think he reckons you more than his own brothers - he's afraid that I'll be the next to go. Lord, Paul, don't look at me like that!" 

Paul schools his face into something less terrified, but his breathing is still painfully rapid. 

"Of course, I've told him that he's daft and it'd take another blitz to get rid of me, but at the same time I'm glad that he's found that thread in himself. It doesn't make him less of a man, now, does it?" 

Shaking his head, Paul sits back in his chair. It's too much for him to take in, and he doesn't know what to say. 

Fortunately, the sound of men's laughter and the opening of the kitchen door spare him from having to speak. Harold, Peter, and George enter, exchanging jokes about nothing in particular. When they catch sight of Paul they suddenly go quiet other than Harold's greeting. "Good to see ya, lad. It's been a while." 

Paul rises, nodding at them all in turn. Truth be told, he's been pushing George aside for a while. It's all Paul can to do simply say "Sorry," but George gives him a large, lopsided grin. 

"It's fine." George pauses and regards Paul with those old-soul eyes. "Listen, I shouldn't have told you about Julia the way I did. I didn't think--" 

"It's fine," Paul parrots. He's afraid he sounds sarcastic so he puts his hand on George's forearm. "Really. I'd rather have heard it from you, anyway." 

George's wiry muscles relax a little at that and his smile widens even as he takes a step back. Paul's hands go to his sides but he's restless and nervous, so he starts to fidget with an imaginary guitar. "Listen, if you're not planning a trip or anything this summer, maybe we could go somewhere, y'know the way we did last year in Devon?" 

In the silence that follows Paul halfway expects George to sneer or punch him, but instead he gives an enthusiastic nod. Before they can say anything else, they hear Peter's outraged cry of "Oi, McCartney's eaten our tea!" and Paul, laughing, sprints out the door, mounts his bicycle, and heads home at last.


	4. Chapter Four

John's bicycle is leaning against a tree in the front yard. Paul parks his own beside it, joining them like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The pedals clank as they tangle together. If John wants to escape from Paul this time, he's going to have to work hard to pull the bikes apart or else just leg it home. 

The house is peaceful. Paul can't tell if he's walking quietly; the thundering of his heart obliterates the sound of his footfall. He goes slowly up the stairs to his room and finds the door ajar. 

He peeks in and is astonished to find his dad and John in the same room, not glowering at each other as is their wont but rather working in tandem to hang up the repaired curtain. Jim is standing on Paul's desk chair and John is balancing precariously on the windowsill as they thread the curtain rod through its bracket. 

Jim starts to step down and John puts out a hand to steady him before sliding off the windowsill as effortlessly as a cat jumping a fence. They take a few steps backward and survey their efforts. Jim takes out his pipe and lights it, nodding approval as he sucks in a lungful of cherry-tinged smoke, while John hastily shoves his needle and thread in an empty cigarette packet that slips neatly into his pocket. 

Paul can't quite make out when Jim says to John, his hand on John's shoulder as if to say "you're a man, now" or some other dad-remark that would usually have John laughing in his face, but that's not how John looks at him this time. He can see the bob of John's adam's apple when he swallows hard. John's face is ashen, and the lenses of his glasses magnify the pain in his eyes. 

Not wanting to let on that he's seen this, Paul turns back and comes down the corridor with more noise. "Hullo, Da! John!" he says with as much cheer as he can muster.

Jim smiles at him, fondly. He probably realized the ruse, even if John missed it. Not much gets past Jim, when you get right down to it. Paul wonders how many of his secrets are so transparent to his father. 

John stands with his head lowered, not looking at Paul or Jim. His hair is a mess - Paul wonders if he came in the front door or shimmied up the drainpipe only to be met by his father - and he looks shorter, somehow, as if the weight of his grief is too much for his young bones. 

"Good of you to join us, Paulie," Jim says as he tips his chin toward the curtains. "Got quite a bit more handyman work ahead of me at Jin's tonight. Mike's already over there, says their plumbing's in quite a state. We'll probably spend the night. There's food in the fridge for later." 

"Thanks. And give my love to Aunt Jin, will you?"

"Absolutely." Jim settles the pipe between his teeth, inhales, then takes it back out and gives Paul a meaningful look. "There's easily enough for two, if John would like to stay over." He turns his attention to John, his eyes soft. "Just be sure and call Mrs. Smith and let her know where you are, there's a good lad." 

He's not being nice, he's being kind. There is a difference, Paul realizes. He's showing gentleness to John, and Louise was right: it doesn't make him any less of a man.

Out of the corner of his eye, Paul can see John's mouth curl up in a disbelieving little grin as Jim leaves the room, whistling softly around the stem of his pipe. They sidle closer to one another, still looking at the curtains. John's hands tremble as he fumbles his glasses off and drops them on the windowsill. Paul would do anything to ease that pain. He can almost feel every molecule in his hands stretching out toward John, yearning to touch him. 

"You did a good job on the curtain," he says instead, grimacing at how clumsy and ineffectual he sounds. 

John squints myopically at his handiwork. "Louise helped me." 

"She said. I stopped by to see George. Just missed you." 

He has missed John. He has missed him so, so much this stupid week, and the stupid fight, and now... 

John fingers the curtain, then lets it flap gently in the evening breeze. "I understand now. Why it mattered." 

With a jolt, Paul understands that John isn't just talking about his own pain, that he's expressing compassion for Paul's. Paul can't remember the last time he felt so helpless and miserable. "I know. I'm sorry." 

John, clearly exhausted, leans on the windowsill with both hands. "So. We're in the same boat, now. Well, not really the same - Mimi's not exactly like Jim and your Mike." 

"She's really worried about you, John. Actually let us in the front door and sent me - ME - to talk to you." 

"Wonders never cease." John looks out the window but Paul knows he sees nothing. He sighs, a small, broken sound. "I'd best be going." 

"No need. You heard my dad. Stay here." 

John turns back toward Paul. His eyes are swollen, with dark circles beneath from lack of sleep. A thin flicker of relief lights up John's expression, then the amber eyes fill with tears. They're nothing to be ashamed of but John is trying to hide them all the same. 

Paul grasps John's shoulders, peers into his face. "Johnny. It's okay." 

John is stiff in his embrace until Paul cups the back of his head and guides it down, stroking the hair at his nape the way Auntie Jin did when Paul was finally able to weep over his mother. It works; John goes limp, the dead-weight almost bringing Paul to his knees before he can pull them both over to the little bed and sit down with John at his side. 

"Does it ever stop?" John mumbles into Paul's shirt. "The hurting?" 

Not wanting to lie, Paul turns the answer over in his mind. "It...it creeps up on you sometimes. But you find a way to just..." He feels his voice thickening dangerously. "You find a way. I promise." 

Snuffling, John pulls back but he doesn't avert his gaze after he wipes his eyes with a corner of the duvet. He jerks his chin at Paul in an awkward gesture of appreciation, gives him a thin-lipped smile. 

"I can cook you up something if you're hungry," Paul offers. That's what the aunties did for him and Mike, feeding them to within an inch of their lives.

John barks out a sharp laugh. "We've been to the Harrisons' house, son, we won't need to eat for a week." He pats his stomach. "Not hungry. Just bone-tired. Let me phone Mimi and then I wouldn't mind calling it a night." He pauses, his gaze flicking downward. "Got a blanket I can take with me?" 

"What for?" Paul asks, confused. 

"To sleep with on the, uh, on the couch." 

Paul can't imagine leaving John on his own, not in such a state. He shakes his head and tuts, imitating Louise. "Daft lad. Kip in here, same as always." 

That earns him a genuine smile. "Don't take all the covers," John warns as he thumps downstairs to use the telephone. 

Paul is too enervated to do anything more than shuck off his shoes and jeans. He crawls into bed with a sigh of pure relief. "What a fucking day," he mutters to himself as the emotions and events rush through his head like a sped-up film. Through the haze of imminent slumber he is vaguely aware of John's return, of the inadvertent noises he makes while he tries to undress quietly. There's a thud of shoes hitting the floor before John slips beneath the duvet. They don't top-and-tail the way Paul and George do, so John's head soon joins Paul's on the pillow. 

They're none too clean after their day's exertions - Paul hopes he doesn't smell as bad as he fears he does - but they huddle close together anyway as the evening breeze turns chilly. "Want me to close the window?" Paul asks. The words are scarcely intelligible, coming as they do in the middle of an inelegant yawn. 

"Nah. 'S nice." John sounds even muzzier. 

Paul takes a deep breath. The scent of musk-mallow blows through the window and the summer moon shimmers through the lace curtain. He can't see where the tear had been. _It's whole again_ , Paul thinks as he feels John's hand rest hesitantly on his shoulder. 

He pats John's wrist, then grasps it gently to guide his hand around to his chest, holding it there, letting it rest over his heart. John's body is warm against his back. "I've got an idea for a song," John murmurs. 

"Tell me in the morning," is Paul's sleepy response. "If you're still here." 

John's fingers tap lightly against Paul's breastbone. "I'll be here." 

They're whole again, too.

**Author's Note:**

> This is, of course, a work of complete and total fiction. The biographical details of the story come from Mark Lewisohn's excellent book, "Tune In: The Beatles All These Years." 
> 
> Many thanks to Savageandwise for listening to me rant about how writing about this subject was so hard.


End file.
